


One more reason

by ragnehild (orphan_account)



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Power Imbalance, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ragnehild
Summary: There were many reasons why Govart was stripped of his rank, clothing and weapons and then banished from the Veretian camp.Lokan was one of them.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	One more reason

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: not pictured, but heavily referenced rape and its' immediate aftermath.
> 
> This is a translation of my other fic, "Jeszcze jeden powód", so I apologize in advance if some of the wording seems off.

\- You take dick like a palace whore.

Govart's voice rang out in a warm summer night, replacing his grunts, the only sound that could be heard for a while now. No steps of patrolling soldiers, no snorting horses, no shouts. In short, nothing that would interrupt Lokan's situation, nothing that would give him any chance to fight his way back to the tent.

The boy leaned heavily against a tree, unsure whether he would stand on his feet without the support of the hard, solid bark of the old oak. He had a strange feeling, that of stepping out of his own body and watching the whole situation unfold as a mere spectator - himself, clutching the tree trunk and Govart standing behind him, unhurriedly pulling up his pants, without even trying to hide the perverse, satisfied grin that blossomed on his face. Lokan was afraid to turn around, convinced that if he came face to face with the captain, if he looked into his impenetrable, expressionless eyes, this night would become not only a mara, something that so unreal to him, he would dismiss it as a warped nightmare and only a crooked step would remind him of what happened here. So he stood still, hugging his face against the rough surface of the tree. He felt its’ rough texture imprint on his cheek hard enough to leave a mark that would disappear after a few minutes, just like bruises would disappear from his arms and thighs, albeit much later. 

He was surprised to discover that Govart had simply walked away, whistling slightly. When the sound of his footsteps on the soft grass faded completely, Lokan sank to the ground, managing only to pull up his half-lowered pants. He felt his heart, which just a moment ago was pounding against his ribs in a mad gallop, pumping adrenaline into his veins, begin to slow down, and with it came a wave of tremendous fatigue. Lokan closed his eyes and for a moment entertained the thought that he could stay here. He had at least a few hours until dawn, and in the chaos of packing up camp, no one would notice the absence of a single, low-ranking soldier. A small plot of grass under the oak seemed to him no less comfortable a bed than the one waiting for him in the tent and had this undeniable superiority of being devoid of curious glances and uncomfortable questions. Lokan almost saw the other soldiers' faces twisted in slightly mocking smiles, felt one of them pat him on the back, congratulating him on a rowdy night and asking who the lucky one was. Lokan would only shake his head, work up a lenient, somewhat shy smile and let them know that it was none of their business and that they better take care of winding the ropes before they got tangled up. His stiff gait would become the main subject of jokes and gossip among the soldiers from his unit, but after a few days, it too would pass, replaced by some new sensation of camp life. 

Nobody will believe him if he says that the captain himself has raped him. 

Lokan startled, suddenly shaken by a wave of disgust. He felt as if someone had replaced his mind with a chalis soaked piece of cotton wool, but the first sober thought in a long time managed to break through this wave of dullness. He had to get back to camp before dawn. He felt that if he fell asleep here, he would not rise until the sun has climbed high above the horizon. Then someone, maybe Chard, or maybe Bert, will realize that he is gone and report it to the commander. He will send a small group of soldiers outside the camp and they will find him here, rolled up with his pants down under a tree on the edge of the forest. He won't wiggle his way out with smiles and semi-serious responses, letting the story tell itself. There will be no end to the questions, and Govart will not miss the whole story, and then Lokan will not free himself from him. 

Something between a whimper and a sob came out of his mouth. He clenched his teeth and rolled sideways so that he could rise on his forearms. He leaned back against the tree trunk and began to stand up. When he was almost on his feet, a wave of pain pierced him, like a long knife's blade radiating up the spine. Lokan felt his jaw clench, enamel rubbing against enamel. He clung to the tree, preventing his body from falling again. He waited, and eventually, the pain eased but did not disappear completely. 

Lokan felt something else, though. A warm, sticky liquid running down his thigh in a narrow stream. When he realized what it was, he bent in half, suddenly shaken by a wave of nausea. He choked on a dry, swept cough and spat a mouthful of bitter bile onto the grass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, making sure his legs could support his weight, began to slowly walk toward the camp. His body protested with every step, demanding rest. The cuts on the hip bone and thighs burned as they rubbed against the trouser material, but Lokan ignored it. He focused only on covering the distance separating him from the camp, and then when he entered the circle of burning baskets illuminating spaces between the tents, on reaching his tent. He let his legs lead him there, not involving his mind in inventing the shortest or otherwise most optimal route. 

Perhaps that is why it never even occurred to him that he might stumble upon someone. The whole camp was asleep, except for two guards guarding the prince's tent, but this one was a few rows away. Lokan, with his eyes fixed on the tips of his own shoes, did not notice the man who seemed to appear out of nowhere and bumped into him. The man stepped back, surprised, and Lokan mumbled an apology and was about to pass him so he could hobble further into his tent when he felt a heavy hand grab his arm.

Lokan looked up and met the camp doctor's gentle gaze.

The boy was speechless because Paschal was perhaps one of the three people whom he wanted to meet the least at the moment, right after Govart and the Prince of Vere himself. The older man gave Lokan a lingering look but did not take his hand away, as if afraid that the soldier would run away as soon as he released his grip. Before he opened his mouth, Lokan knew he would not wiggle himself out of this one. Whatever lie he would try to convince the doctor with, his appearance told a different story - a stiff gait, tousled clothes, and hair, certainly with bits of forest flooring remaining in them denied anything that Lokan would be able to come up with at that moment.

“Are you all right?” the question was supposedly simple, but Lokan did not have a ready answer. Yes, I'm just coming back from a tryst with our captain. Yes, no wonder he chose the night when the thick clouds obscure the moonlight. Yes, I left the tent for a moment to take a leak and he was waiting for me, ready to put a hand to my mouth and a knife to my ribs. Yes, he must have been watching me for a long time. Yes, he couldn't find a better opportunity

"I, uh ..." he began, unable to get himself to look the doctor in the eye. “I think I'll go to bed,” he said quietly, indistinctly, because his suddenly numb tongue did not quite want to form syllables.

"My tent is closer," he heard in reply. Paschal's voice was soft and gentle as if he were talking to a frightened animal. Lokan admitted to himself that that’s what he probably was at the moment; he felt his muscles tense, could feel every breath he didn't know when became so shallow. It tired him, and the only rescue, a shadow of a chance to forget about where he was could only be found in a heavy sleep. He didn't feel obliged to draw a line between being in the land of nod and unconsciousness, but both offered a similar escape.

The doctor's voice came to him as if from behind a wall, as he was staring somewhere over the other man’s shoulder, contemplating his own thoughts. Some part of him, the last flash of rational thinking, told him that he was in shock and was not acting rationally. It also stubbornly claimed that meeting the medic on his way was not such a bad thing, and argued that someone like him would certainly be able to maintain discretion in a case like this. He must have answered him, for he heard his own voice, but his mind certainly did not take part in this exchange, because when Lokan's mind cleared slightly, he walked, supported by the older man, towards his tent.

The interior was definitely more spacious than the tents of regular soldiers. In the center stood a table ready to bear the weight of an adult man, still immaculate, but once they reach the border, certainly it’s bright, carefully planed wood will darken, drinking up the blood of the howling wounded. Another table was set up by the tent's canvas, which Paschal probably used as a desk, as it had thick files of documents stacked in an even pile next to stationery. Next, there was a shelf hung upon one of the poles supporting the tent, in a truly Veretian style, on which the medic has put a few bottles. Some of them had labels, others were distinguished only by the shape or the color of the glass.

Lokan looked at all the details, letting his mind jump from one to the other so that he even for a moment didn't have to think about why he was here. Paschal led him to one of the two bunks in the tent and seated him on it, then reached for his bag. Lokan took a deep breath and sat there, trying to look inconspicuous, uncertain how to behave. He didn't know when he closed his eyes, but he opened them reluctantly when he felt Paschal's hand on his shoulder. The older man managed to bring a medical bag and pull up the low stool before he pulled Lokan out of shallow sleep.

  
“Your name is Lokan, right? The man only nodded, trying hard to focus his eyes on the man talking to him. How did he know his name? "Okay, then can you tell me what happened? I found you wandering around the camp at night, in terrible condition, but I won't be able to help you unless you tell me what happened to you.”

Lokan was silent for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. How much had to be shared between them instead of being buried deep in his memory? After a moment's hesitation, he decided to share some of the truth with Paschal.

"I left the tent to take a leak and one of the soldiers attacked me," he said, fidgeting with his fingers nervously. "There's not much to tell, I didn’t even see his face," he added after a moment's thought. Paschal just nodded, so he continued. “I had no chance with him, he put a knife under my ribs and said that if I make a sound, he’ll stab me here and there and nobody will ever find me” these were not Govart's exact words, but Paschal did not have to know the details. "We went outside the camp, far enough that nobody would hear me when he ..." he suddenly broke off. He prayed that Paschal would not tell him to go on, that he would guess himself and no longer ask about anything. The voice in Lokan's throat died down as if a hand was clamped around his windpipe.

"Are you sure you don't know who attacked you? If you gave me the name, I'm sure one of the officers could ... “

"No," he said a little too loudly, too quickly. "Besides ..." Lokan looked up and for the first time, that night looked Paschal straight in the eye. “I'm fine.”

"Lokan," the medic's voice was gentle, so different from the young man's unnaturally high voice. “You’ve bled through your garments.”

Lokan swallowed loudly, only now realizing that this unpleasant heat that flowed down his leg when he was leaning against the tree has not only been Govart's semen. He shifted uneasily, feeling the stiff, rough-blooded pants material brush against his skin.

"I can handle it," he said exhaling, once more unable to look at Paschal's face. After all, the medic couldn't force him to stay here, right?

"Lokan, listen to me," Paschal straightened up on the stool. "I won't force you to do anything, but as your doctor, I wouldn't want to leave you alone. I just want to check if whoever did this to you has done any permanent damage. I won’t do anything without your consent.”

Lokan took a deep breath, hoping it would buy him more time to answer. Paschal, however, did not rush him, calmly waiting for the younger man’s decision. The warmth in the tent seemed to have a soothing effect on him, discouraging him from going out into the night. It wasn't until he looked down that he saw his hands shaking.

“Fine.”

Paschal nodded and began to roll up the sleeves of his milk-white shirt. Lokan rose stiffly from his bunk and reached to his belt, unfastening it. He needed a little more time because with his hands shaking it proved to be harder than usual. He looked up and, to his relief, saw Paschal standing with his back to him, reaching for one of the bottles standing on the hanging shelf. Lokan slid his pants down, feeling disgusted as the wet material peeled off his skin. After a moment's thought, he took a deep breath and took them off completely, letting the long tunic, partly held down by the belt, fall halfway down his thighs. He stood for a moment, unsure what to do next, feeling his heart accelerate again to this uncomfortable, hasty rhythm. He looked at Paschal, who turned his head toward him.

"Lie on your side and pull your legs under your chin.

  
Lokan obeyed and turned sideways, his back to Paschal. The medic, clearly trying to give the younger man a little sense of comfort, covered the lower half of his body with a thin blanket and only revealed what was necessary at the moment. Lokan stiffened as he felt the doctor's fingers around his buttocks. He held his breath, but Paschal waited calmly for his patient to relax. Eventually, Lokan forced his stiff muscles to relax and felt the profusely oiled fingers enter him without any problem. Paschal's touch was clinical and totally devoid of personality, but above all, it did not last long. Apparently, the medic learned what he needed, removed his fingers and wiped them with a previously prepared handkerchief. Lokan didn't even have to look to know that there were crimson marks left on the light material.

"You’re still bleeding, but fortunately not much," Lokan wasn't sure if it consoled him. “Everything should heal on its own, but I’ll apply an ointment that should speed up the whole process. Then I'll give you a jar so you can do it yourself for the next few days.”

There was something reassuring in the way Paschal would say what he was about to do and why, each time waiting for Lokan to nod or otherwise express his approval. The medic washed him with a towel dipped in warm water, wiping away dried blood and dried remains of Govart's semen from the other man's skin. Lokan allowed him, knowing very well that if he were on his own, he would just lie on his bunk, without even taking off his trousers.

The ointment had a strong, herbal smell and it stung at first, but after a few seconds, the feeling was replaced by a pleasant coolness. When Paschal finished, he wrapped a thick piece of cloth around Lokan's hips so that he would not stain the sheets with blood. At this stage, Lokan felt as if his limbs were made of lead and he dreamed of closing his eyes, but Paschal would not let him, constantly chatting him up about a wide variety of irrelevant topics like bow types suitable for mountain combat or horseriding. It would probably irritate him under ordinary circumstances, but he couldn't get angry with the medic now, welcoming the distraction he provided instead. He felt as if he was unable to feel any strong emotions for anyone other than himself and even then, it was only disgust.

It took him a moment longer than it was appropriate to realize that the bustle around him has stopped. He raised his head slightly and saw Paschal standing above him with a small clay cup in his hand, a strong, herbal smell oozing out of it.

Lokan shook his head.

"In a few hours I have to be on my feet, pack up the camp," he said, even though he could hear the complete lack of conviction in his voice. Paschal looked at him in a way that might have been interpreted as pity, though he knew it was concern.

"Nobody will require that of you," the doctor assured him. Before Lokan could open his mouth to reply, as if Paschal could read his mind, he added: “not even Govart.”

***

Paschal left Lokan in the tent, having first ascertained that the drug had worked and the boy would not wake up suddenly, alone in a foreign place. It was beginning to dawn, a thin glow of morning light slowly brushing away the darkness of a cloudy night. The medic hurried toward the central part of the camp and soon stood in front of Laurent's tent. The soldiers on guard looked surprised when they saw him at this hour and were already opening their mouths to tell him to come in the morning when the prince's voice came from inside the tent.

"Let him in," the guards looked at each other and stepped to the side without a word.

Laurent was sitting at a table. The only sign that it was the middle of the night was that the prince took off his vest and sat only in his trousers and a plain shirt, leaning over a small piece of paper. The only source of light in the tent was a single, dimmed candle right next to the prince's hand. Paschal saw the silhouette of Laurent's Pet curled up on the bed on the other side of the tent, far beyond the candle's circle of light.

Paschal bowed. Laurent put down the letter he had been reading and turned to the medic.

“What brings you to me at this hour?” asked the prince, raising a single bright eyebrow. His tone was serious, completely devoid of its’ signature disregard, but it bore no signs of weariness that was a natural result of a sleepless night.

"Your Highness," the medic began, straightening up. “Govart has raped one of the soldiers. I saw him entering the camp about an hour ago, and he clearly wanted no one to notice him. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't care, in the end, it isn't happening for the first time, but soon a young lad, one of Jord's men, followed. We literally stumbled upon each other. For a moment I thought he was drunk, as he seemed confused and mumbled, but I quickly realized that his behavior couldn’t be attributed to alcohol. I took him to my tent and after a short conversation, it was clear what had happened to him. He did not name the perpetrator, although I’m convinced that this is due to fear of further harassment rather than anything else.”

“Where is he now?”

“In my tent, sleeping. I took care of him as much as I could and decided it would be better if he stayed with me for the night. “

The prince nodded thoughtfully. He was silent, but after a moment his features changed. Something in his gaze hardened as if he had made a decision.

"Tell him that from tomorrow on Govart will not cause him trouble anymore."


End file.
